Marking Time in Purgatory

I hate the DMV. I hate everything about it. The long lines. The mongoloid and always rude employees. And, lastly, the denizens of the Empire that usually fill up the stuffy gloomy soul-sucking building. I hate going. It’s the embodiment of literally everything wrong with government, along with our degrading culture. Unfortunately, sometimes you have to bite the bullet. For me, stoicism helps. I use the same technique when traveling through airports or visiting our dying shopping malls. Just deal with it and it’ll be over soon.

I had to be a good goy. “Surrender” (what a term for Big Gov) the license plates for my late grandfather’s old Ford pickup. I knew it was going to be simply God awful. Honestly, I’d rather be forced to eat Indian food (it’s overrated and far too SWPLy for me) or watch The Last Jedi on repeat. I guess I could have mailed them in, but deep down I’m a glutton for punishment (this is the Alt-Right after all).

I’m high agency and low time preference. I wasn’t about to have this experience be the usual. I researched all the forms I needed in advance. I even visited the DMV and specifically confirmed with the low IQ mouth-breathing employee if these were the correct forms. This was going to go smooth and by the numbers – as little as possible of me “paying the tax” (insiders know what these means). If you’re unfamiliar with the term, just check out the crime segment on your local news station or visit a McDonald’s the white folks don’t patron. You’ll know what it means to pay the tax.

As you can guess about my little adventure, it wasn’t meant to be in Weimerica. I was going to pay a multitude of taxes during this escapade.

The DMV on the outskirts of Richmond opens at 8:00 AM. It’s the part of town where only a street separates old-Richmond white working class rednecks and the scum of the black community. Usually, it’s not even tolerable colored people, in my opinion. You go from a decent set of rancher homes to an abandoned wasteland from block to block. I’m surprised the old families still live there. But, when I normally drive by the DMV there are only a handful of cars in the parking lot. I assumed if I arrived maybe a few minutes early, I should be on easy street. Perhaps, just a few people there (including the employee-drones). In and out and no problems.

Of course, on this specific day I arrived at 8:05 AM. Some damn minivan driving the speed of smell shaved off those precious early minutes. I usually find minivan drivers to be the worst drivers in the entire country. The more dinged up, outdated and needing a paint-job, the worse the driver – doubly so when the van is packed to the gills with hungover Mexican construction workers. The swerving and erratic speeds make more sense when José is behind the wheel. These people have a penchant for drunk driving after all.

By the time I got to the DMV and searched for a parking spot, I knew I was doomed. The parking lot, normally empty during random periods, was practically full. A line had already formed outside the front entrance. It looked liked the clientele of Mos Eisley Cantina. How was this possible? It was only five fucking minutes past opening. To this day, I blame Maximilian I of Mexico.

Naturally, it had to start pissing rain when I got in line. An elderly black man behind me cursed under his breath and left. In front of me, a hipster played on his phone and sipped his Starbucks coffee. A few went back to their cars and grabbed an umbrella. Men don’t use umbrellas, unless escorting a woman, so I stood steely eyed in the rain. Unfortunately, I saw a “normal-looking” white man hustle over to his car to pull out an umbrella, he took longer than was socially acceptable and got cucked by an obese black man for his spot in line. I’d normally have said something, but I couldn’t forgive him for getting the umbrella. Serves him right, the pussy.

After waiting twenty minutes in the rain and getting completely soaked, we made it through the entrance. If this had been a video game, I’d met the final boss. It was an obese negro woman in the service of the DMV as security. She was so overweight and bulging that there was no way she could have seen her feet. I could hear her labored breathing ten yards away. She struggled just to stand and swayed back and forth. Although, she was able to wobble over to the admin sign-in stand and gulp down a Diet Dr. Pepper when she wasn’t berating my fellow citizens. Her eyes were simply dark slits due to her swollen face. This was Precious with a badge, gun and a bad attitude.

We had to stand behind the white line leading up to the sign-in stand and in an orderly fashion. Small talk was implicitly forbidden. If even a toe was over the white line, Precious said something to you. Once the admin called you up, you could cross the white line and begin the process of waiting at least an hour to have three pages of paperwork completed. While waiting, Precious would survey the line and keep repeating, “Mak suh yu got ya papawerk ready. Yu gotta go back in line if ya ain’t got it.” I kept chanting internally, “I’m not going to pay the tax, I’m not going to pay the tax, I’m not going to pay the tax…” as I clinched my meticulously prepared paperwork. Not today, Precious.

The effeminate hipster in front of me wasn’t so lucky. He was next up to the white line. He’d been in a bubble and not paying attention. Before he knew it, Precious saw his faggoty TOMS slippers were just barely over the white line. “Suh! Suh! Yu need to git behind da line!” she growled. He meekly looked up from nursing his Caffè Misto and started stammering. What our effete nancy-boy hipster didn’t realize (besides having his toe over the line) was you’re not allowed to bring beverages into the DMV and Precious wasn’t going to let no white man (no matter how foppish or a likely an ally of colour) break the house rules.

Suh, yu gonna need to throw dat out. No drinks allowed in heah!” she ordered.

But, like can I finish it, please?” he timidly appealed. The vocal fry was off the charts and I sided with Precious based off that alone, regardless that she’d been downing a DDP throughout the morning. Abstract principles like hypocrisy don’t really resonate with her kind, but I enjoyed watching Mr. Hipster try and lay a solid argument against her. By the time he had outstretched his skinny arm and pointed toward the half-empty DDP, Precious had already swooped in (quicker than I could have imagined) and palmed his overpriced drink. She casually tossed it in the trash can next to her. Then, pointed toward the end of the line and said, “Follow da rules or come back anutha day.

The other blacks in line cheered. Hiptersman was defeated in front of a live audience. He laid his head low and, surprisingly, walked out the door instead of retreating to the back of the line. I was up next and I wasn’t going to be cucked in front of a hostile crowd. The chant was now banging in my head.

I didn’t look around. Face front and center and eyes dead ahead. I didn’t look at her or anyone around me, but I could feel Precious was gazing at me – waiting for something to permit her to disrespect me. I peeped down and saw that the tip of my cowboy boot was a hair over the line. My mind froze and time seemed to stop and I began to collect my thoughts in preparation for the showdown that was going to take place. Of all the things I should have been prepared for, I failed the most basic rule of this upside down DMV – the white line. I guess I had gotten caught up in seeing the hipster get his comeuppance from Precious.

What was I going to say, when she eventually would do her “duty”? Fuck off. Fuck you. Either response could work. In those split seconds though, I fantasized about how successful I would be if I ran up and poured that DDP over her monstrous head. Considering how obese she was, there’s no way she could catch me even within the confines of the DMV. I could simply run circles around her as she finally collapsed from exhaustion and her own weight. Sure, I’d probably be arrested and make the local news, but it might be worth it. Fortunately, nothing happened.

I reckon she knew better than to mess with a normal white dude that wasn’t going to take any of her shit. When I realized my toe was over the line, I actually just ended up staring at her. She must have figured I wasn’t worth the trouble. Maybe she just got tired. After a bit, she seesawed on over to the side of the building and sat down. She’d done her good deed of the day by roasting the scrawny white boy.

After showing my papers to the flirty octoroon at the sign-in station, I ended up waiting a full 60 minutes to get to the main counter. It took another 15 minutes for the heavy-set mudshark with a pleasant face to process the paperwork.  Then, I was gone.

I’ve never been back since. Next time, I’ll do it online.

A scourge to communists, scallywags, hipsters and feminists, Silas Reynolds calls anywhere south of the Potomac his home. He has a penchant for muscle cars, firearms and 80’s action movies.